


CSI: North Pole

by imogenbynight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Based on a song, Christmas, M/M, Pre-Castiel/Dean Winchester, SPN Holiday Mixtape, santa, utter nonsense tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 04:11:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8734423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imogenbynight/pseuds/imogenbynight
Summary: Team Free Will have just agreed to take a few days to recover from their last hunt when Sully arrives with some news about Santa; he's real, and he's been kidnapped.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who went out to a work christmas party, got hammered, slept in late, was hungover, took a nap that turned into a second sleep, woke up forty minutes after she usually goes to bed on a work night, and then realized she never updated the thing? This moi. 
> 
> Yikes. 
> 
> Here's a crack ficlet, hope y'all enjoy. I'm going back to bed.

 

After the last ambulance pulls away from Club Meteor, the crowd starts to thin. Dean watches them go, and he can’t help but wonder how many of them are going to block the memory of this night out. He almost envies people who get to do that, but the feeling is fleeting. They’ve still got work to do, after all. As he just finished telling Sam, it’s what they do. 

 

Still, right now it’s not quite midnight, and there’s nothing left for them to do here. 

 

“So,” Dean says, looking back at the others. “What now?”

 

“I’ll set up some new alerts for angel-related activity,” Sam says, digging his cell from his pocket. “And maybe we can take another shot looking for a location spell? We know he’s not in a vessel right now, so maybe--”

 

“Ugh,” Crowley says, cutting him off, and Sam gives him an irritated look.

 

“What?”

 

“Just-- what is it they say?” Crowley rolls up onto the balls of his feet, hands in his coat pockets. “All work and no play makes us all corpses?”

 

Cas squints at him.

 

“I don’t think that’s the phrase,” he says from where he’s still leaning against the Impala.

 

“What’s your point?” Dean asks.

 

“My point is that we’ve all been running ourselves into the ground for months, and the only reason any of us are still alive right now is because the sadistic prick felt like playing with us. At this rate, the next time we manage to find Lucifer he’s going to kill us dead before we can get within ten feet of him.” He looks around at them, then rolls his eyes when they don’t immediately catch on. The motion pulls at the mangled wreckage of his left eye, and he grimaces, hissing through his teeth. “We need a break.”

 

“We don’t have the luxury of time to spare,” Cas says.

 

“Time’s just about the only thing we do have, Feathers. We’ve got no hope of finding him until he’s found a new body to walk around in, and he’ll need time to find one that fits. This is a perfect opportunity to take some time off, and one we’re not likely to see again until he’s been dealt with. I’m taking it.”

 

“What are you planning to do in the meantime?” Sam asks him.

 

“There are some triplets in North Dakota who’ve been dying to see me,” Crowley says, giving Dean a smirk that almost makes him want to call Lucifer back to just end him already. “Call me when you find the devil.”

 

With that he vanishes, leaving the unpleasant bite of sulphur in the air. Cas visibly relaxes, as much as he’s able to.

 

“How detrimental would it be to our cause if I permanently warded myself against him?”

 

“It’d probably be worth it in the long run,” Dean says, looking to Sam for his thoughts. Sam is just frowning, thinking something over. “What’re you chewing on there, Sam?”

 

“He’s right.”

 

“Who’s right? Crowley?”

 

“We need a break. I said we’re losing slow, but man... we’re gonna lose fast if we jump into another fight with Lucifer without resting up first. Tonight was too close for all of us.”

 

He looks meaningfully at Cas, and Dean can’t argue with him there. For a moment, when Cas was up on that stage, Dean had been almost certain that Lucifer was going to end him. They’re outmatched against Lucifer on a good day. Tonight, they weren’t at the top of their game, and it’s a miracle they made it out alive. Dean sighs.

 

“Alright, I guess you’ve got a point. We’ll take a few days.”

 

Cas pushes himself away from the Impala and straightens his coat.

 

“In that case, take me back to my car. I’ll keep looking for him, and I’ll call you when I know something.”

 

“What?” Dean says. “No.”

 

“No?”

 

“If we’re taking a break, we’re all taking a break. You included, Cas.”

 

“But I--”

 

“He’s right, Cas,” Sam says. “You got thrown around in there as much as anyone.”

 

“Not to mention this whole last year of crap,” Dean adds.

 

“Exactly. So either you take a few days off with us, or we all keep hunting for Lucifer together.”

 

“Your call,” Dean says, and Cas glowers at them both for a long moment before he looks away in defeat.

 

“Fine. We’ll take a few days.”

 

Dean can’t help but beam.

 

\---

 

They stop in Colorado the following night, ten and a half hours into their twenty-one hour drive back to Lebanon, and get a room at a run-down motel near the I-70 off ramp. The room is awful. Thin curtains and a stain on the carpet that looks a little too much like blood for Dean’s liking. He takes one look at the bathroom and decides he’d be better off waiting to shower at the bunker tomorrow.

 

Sam shows no such concern, and the clunking pipes echo through the wall every time he adjusts the temperature in the shower.

 

Perched on the edge of one of the beds, Dean and Cas are watching Jingle All the Way on the tiny CRT TV set.

 

“It’s literally December 2nd,” Dean says, and takes a bite of his taquito. “How are they already playing Christmas movies?”

 

“You chose this movie,” Cas points out.

 

“Yeah, but it was this or an episode of How I Met Your Mother that I’ve already seen.”

 

“Haven’t you already seen this movie, too?” 

 

“Well, yeah, but--” Dean’s halfway through answering around a mouthful of taquito when the screen is suddenly blocked by a man in a bright yellow t-shirt. Dean inhales a chunk of corn tortilla, and Cas leaps to his feet to slam the intruder into the wall beside the TV, pinning him there with a forearm across his throat. Dean’s still trying to dislodge the tortilla that’s trying to kill him or he’d speak up to let him know the reaction isn’t necessary.

 

“Who are you?” Cas demands, and the bathroom door bursts open to reveal Sam with his shoulders squared, ready to fight until he sees who Cas is threatening. He lowers his hands and hurries forward.

 

“Whoa--Cas, let him go! It’s Sully.”

 

Glancing over at Sam with a frown, Cas does as he asked, stepping back. Sully wheezes. Dean finally dislodges the food from his windpipe and does the same.

 

“I probably should have knocked,” Sully says once he catches his breath.

 

“You think?” Dean croaks, wiping at his mouth and watering eyes. Sully shoots him a smile.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“It took me a long time to remember to do that, myself,” Cas offers, before looking at him a little more closely. “Ah. You’re Zanna.” He tilts his head to the side and looks from Sully to Sam. “Sam’s friend?”

 

“Sam’s first and best,” Sully says proudly, and Dean rolls his eyes.

 

“What’re you doing here, man?” Sam asks, oblivious to Dean’s reaction, and Sully just stands there grinning at him, the smile on his face getting closer to a grimace the longer he tries to hold it. Sam glances at Dean and Cas with a worried frown. “Sully, what’s going on? Is everything okay?”

 

Sully’s smile cracks before it crumbles into nothing. Dean’s never seen anyone more closely resemble the masks of comedy and tragedy in his life.

 

“I… I shouldn’t have come. You’re not supposed to-- I’ll just--”

 

“Hey, no, you can tell me,” Sam says. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

 

Still, Sully hesitates. He looks torn between protecting Sam and asking for his help. Dean can relate.

 

“You’re already here,” Dean tells him. “Just spit it out.”

 

Fidgeting, Sully takes a deep breath.

 

“It’s bad, guys. Really bad.”

 

Sam’s forehead crinkles in concern.

 

“Did something happen to Weems?” he asks, and Sully’s eyes widen before he shakes his head.

 

“Oh, no, Weems is fine. It’s… it’s the big guy.”

 

Sam raises his brow and glances at his brother, but Dean only shrugs.

 

“Which big guy?” 

 

“Him,” Sully says, pointing at the TV screen, where the movie is still quietly playing.

 

“Arnold Schwarzenegger?” Dean asks.

 

“Santa.” Sully looks deadly serious. “He’s been kidnapped.” 

 

Dean stares for a moment before slapping his palms down against his thighs and pushing up from the bed.

 

“Alright, I’m out,” he says.

 

“Dean, wait—“ Sam says, holding up his hand. “Let him explain.”

 

“Explain what? There’s no Santa Claus, okay? Cas, tell him there’s no Santa Claus.”

 

Cas barely opens his mouth before Dean keeps talking.

 

“You know how I know there’s no Santa Claus? Because I was the one who put the presents under the coat hanger decorated with beer cans we had instead of a tree.”

 

“Oh, um, actually… Santa hasn’t delivered toys for years,” Sully cuts in. “He’s definitely real, though.”

 

“Why hasn’t he?” Sam asks, apparently buying the whole Santa is real thing without question, and Dean throws his hands up before sittings heavily back down.

 

“Because of the elves,” Sully answers.

 

“...the Christmas elves?” Sam asks.

 

Sully nods.

 

“They’re on strike, I believe,” Cas says, and Dean turns to look at him.

 

“Exactly!” Sully says, impressed. Sam just nods as if it all makes perfect sense while he tries to wrap his head around this information. “They haven’t made toys since 1912.”

 

“How did you know that, Cas?”

 

“I have a life outside of my interactions with the two of you. I know a lot of things.”

 

Closing his eyes, Dean rubs the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

 

“So what have they all been doing this whole time?”

 

“Most of them got new jobs,” Sully says, as if that’s obvious.

 

“Okay, you’ve gotta stop doing that.”

 

“What?”

 

“Acting like we’re just supposed to know all this crap. Explain it like Sam’s five again,” Dean suggests.

 

“Christmas elves aren’t a species,” Sully starts off. “They aren’t like the fae Elves--for them, it’s just a job title.”

 

“So what species are they?”

 

“They’re Zanna,” Sully says. “Like me and Weems. And Santa.”

 

“Santa is a Zanna?” Sam asks.

 

“Of course he is,” Dean says, flopping back down onto the edge of his bed. “Makes perfect sense.”

 

“His whole deal is to make kids happy, so it does kinda make sense,” Sam shrugs.

 

Dean sighs. 

 

“Alright. So he went missing.”

 

“Snatched right out of his house,” Sully says.

 

“Well, what do you want us to do about it?”

 

“I thought… well, you helped me after Spar--” Sully’s face crumples a little, mouth squeezing up like he’s sucked on a lemon. “Sparkle. And Nicky. So I hoped you might be able to help find him.”

 

“Of course we’ll help,” Sam says, levelling Dean with a glare that says, just try and argue with me on this.

 

“Really?” 

 

Sully is looking between them all with such open gratitude that Dean can’t stand it. He gives up.

 

“Yeah, okay. How exactly are you planning to get us there?” 

 

“I assumed you’d want to drive,” Sully says.

 

Dean lifts his brow.

 

“Look, I appreciate your faith in the Impala, but if we’re gonna be playing CSI: North Pole we’re gonna need some other way to get there.”

 

Sully’s expression cracks into a smile.

 

“We’re not going to the North Pole, silly. We’re going to Wyoming.” 

 

“Wyoming?”

 

“Yep.” 

 

“Santa lives in Wyoming?” 

 

“We only started the rumor that he lived in the North Pole to stop kids from showing up all the time.” 

 

“Of course.”

 

“We couldn’t just let the true location be public knowledge,” Sully says. “That’d be loony.”

 

“Downright wacky,” Dean replies flatly.

 

“Right?!” Sully laughs.

 

\----

 

“Can you believe we’re going from Satan to Santa in less than a day?” Dean asks as he shoves his duffel back into the Impala’s trunk fifteen minutes later. He slams it shut, looking over to where Cas is leaning against his truck. He looks about as tired as Dean feels.

 

Sam hums in agreement.

 

“It’s pretty absurd, even for us.”

 

“So much for that break.” 

 

“This isn’t a regular hunt, though,” Sam offers. “Maybe it’ll be like a vacation.”

 

Dean snorts.

 

“Right.”

 

“At least it’s not that far. Nine hours isn’t too bad.”

 

Dean refrains from mentioning that he’d been planning on unconsciousness for at least half those hours, and instead focuses on flipping his keys around his index finger as Sully makes his way over to speak to Sam.

 

Dean takes the moment to go talk to Cas. He offers Dean a small smile when he gets close, and Dean can’t help but return it, tired or not.

 

“I’d have thought you would change back into your usual clothes by now,” he says, and Dean looks down at his dark jeans and leather jacket.

 

“I did get changed. I wear this shirt all the time.” Cas lifts his brow, and Dean chews the inside of his cheek. “Oh, you mean my lumberjack clothes.”

 

“You made fun of me first, Dean. A ‘third tier agent,’ I believe was the phrase.”

 

“Low hanging fruit, man,” Dean grins.

 

“You would do well to remember that this third tier agent is the one whose contact actually gave up the information we needed, despite my wearing a trenchcoat.”

 

Dean snorts.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, you’re a good hunter even if you dress like an insurance agent. You should still dress down every once in a while, though.”

 

“Well, if you can step away from the lumberjack clothes now and then, perhaps I can give that a try. This looks good on you, by the way. Are we nearly ready to go?”

 

“Yeah, I think so,” Dean says, looking away as he tries not to enjoy the casual compliment so much. “But, hey-- once we’ve dealt with this, we’re all taking that break. I say we have the weekend off.”

 

“What makes you think we’ll be done by the weekend?”

 

“I’m trying to think positive thoughts,” Dean tells him.

 

Cas fails to suppress his smile.

 

“Alright,” he agrees.

 

“So. You gonna follow us back, or are you ditching this car?”

 

“I’ll follow. I believe Sully is going to ride with me.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

“He said he’s never met an angel before and has ‘a million questions’,” Cas shrugs, but he looks a little embarrassed. “I’m almost positive it was hyperbole, but it seemed rude to turn him down. Besides, I’m sure he’ll be a better traveling companion than Crowley.”

 

“That’s a low bar, Cas.”

 

“And yet it’s the only one I have.”

 

\----

 

They stop at a 24 hour roadhouse five hours into the drive, and the four of them sit in a booth near the door while Sam and Dean eat an early breakfast. Sully is so peppy that it makes Dean want to scream, and he grinds his teeth in between mouthfuls of coffee.

 

Cas pulls him aside when they leave, letting Sam and Sully walk ahead, engrossed in a conversation about some fictional adventure they’d pretended to go on when Sam was seven years old.

 

“Are you alright?” Cas asks him.

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“Then why are you looking at Sully like you’re considering murder?”

 

“Come on, Cas, I’m not that bad. I’m just tired.” Cas gives him a doubtful look. Dean huffs. “I don’t have a problem with Sully. He looks out for Sammy, so he’s, y’know. Cool.”

 

Cas frowns, then his brow smooths out.

 

“Ah, I see. That’s it.”

 

“What?”

 

“You feel threatened by him.”

 

Dean bristles, but Cas keeps going.

 

“Is this because you think that Sam should have just relied on you as a child, and shouldn’t have needed Sully in the first place?”

 

“Cas, seriously--”

 

“Because that’s absurd, Dean. You can’t put everything on one person. It’s unhealthy. Sam needs friends outside of you just as you need them outside of him.”

 

Dean eyes him.

 

“Where are you getting this Dr. Phil crap?”

 

“I watched a talk show in a motel this week.”

 

“So it’s literally Dr. Phil crap,” Dean laughs, feeling a little lighter already, and Cas half smiles before he remembers he’s trying to be stern.

 

“It’s good advice, regardless of where it came from.”

 

Sighing, Dean nods.

 

“Easier said than done,” he says, and looks toward the car. “I was being serious when I said I don’t have a problem with the guy. He’s just… a little much to deal with on no sleep.”

 

“He is rather animated,” Cas allows.

 

“That’s one word for it. C’mon, what do you say we let Sam and Sully take your truck and you can ride shotgun with me the rest of the way?”

 

“No, thank you,” Cas says, and Dean’s good mood dies.

 

“Oh. Okay.”

 

“You can ride shotgun.”

 

“Wait, you want to drive?”

 

“You’re welcome to go with Sam and Sully, of course, but my passenger seat is available.”

 

With that, Cas walks past, heading for his truck, and Dean watches him go before tossing Sam the keys to the Impala.

 

“We’ll follow,” he says, and heads after Cas before his brother can respond.

 

\----

 

It’s weird being in the passenger seat while Cas drives. Dean tries to change the radio station and gets a slapped hand for his trouble.

 

“Hey!” he says.

 

“Hey yourself,” Cas replies, not looking away from the road. “I’m listening to that.”

 

“When did you turn into such a hardass?” 

 

Cas actually looks at him now, and simply lifts his brow before returning his focus to the road ahead.

 

“Okay, fine, tough guy,” Dean rolls his eyes. “You hang out with Crowley for a few weeks and turn into a cranky bastard.”

 

“I wasn’t hanging out with Crowley. I was stuck working with Crowley.”

 

“I offered to go with you,” Dean says.

 

“I know. But I assumed you’d be spending more time with Mary. I didn’t want to get in the way.”

 

“Cas--”

 

“You can choose the next song,” Cas cuts him off, and Dean watches him for a long moment before he nods.

 

“Okay,” he says. “Thanks.”

 

\----

 

Dean’s just wondered aloud how much further they have to go when Sully directs Sam off the road and onto a bumpy trail. They’ve only been driving along it for a few minutes when Dean sees a wall of trees blocking their way, but the Impala keeps going.

 

“What the hell are they doing?” Dean asks, his heart nearly stopping when it looks like Sam is about to drive his car right into the trees, but then the Impala shimmers right through them. Cas looks over at him.

 

“It’s just a glamor,” he says simply, and keeps driving forward.

 

Still, Dean grips the door handle as they get closer to the trees, twisting back against his seat and bracing for an impact that doesn’t come.

 

“I told you,” Cas says.

 

When they emerge on the other side, they’re on a cobbled road, flanked by trees and snowdrifts. Ahead, they can see the Impala still driving along, and Cas keeps following, pulling over when Sam does.

 

“We’ll have to walk the rest of the way,” Sully says in apology. “Nowhere to park in town. It’s not far.”

 

The town, when they reach it, looks like it belongs in a Disney movie. From the cobbled road to the thatch-roofed houses, there’s something about it that just says fairytale. Across the town square, there’s an old stone building decorated in glittering lights, and dozens of Zanna are gathered outside. It’s hard not to stare at them. They look like a bunch of kids drawings come to life. None of them look like the christmas elves Dean had been picturing, but at this point he’s trying to stop having expectations at all.

 

A short, rotund Zanna with fuzzy yellow fur speckled with black trundles out from the crowd, heading right for them. Sully waves when he sees him.

 

“Guys, this is Bill,” Sully says, and gestures toward the three of them. “Bill, this is Sam, Dean, and Cas.”

 

Dean’s still trying to reconcile the name Bill with this guy who looks like a cartoon jungle cat when he offers a paw for them to shake. 

 

“Real good of you to come,” Bill asks. He sounds like he smokes a pack a day. 

 

“Bill’s the one who realized he was missing,” Sully explains.

 

“I had a batch of sugar cookies for him--he’s been going through them like they’re goin’ out of style, so I’ve been delivering some every couple of weeks. But when I went inside… well. I’ll show you.”

 

He gestures for them to follow him, and they all make their way up the road.

 

“How’d you get inside the house?” Dean asks. “Was the door unlocked, or did it look like it was forced?”

 

“Oh, we don’t have locks here. No need for them.” He looks troubled. “At least, there’s never been a need for them before. Now, I’m not so sure. Here we are.”

 

Santa’s house looks much the same as the rest in the town; thatched roof, white walls, strings of twinkle lights hanging along the eaves. It’s not particularly big, and it’s separated from its neighbors by a well-trimmed hedge.

 

Bill leads them in through the front door and into the kitchen. On the counter, a tall mug lays on its side, the remnants of something thick and chocolatey splashed out over the surface. It’s coagulated and dried. Dean can smell something sickly that he thinks might be Amaretto. Apparently Santa gets on the sauce. Who knew.

 

“We think there might have been a scuffle,” Bill says, gesturing toward the edge of the counter, where smeared through the dried up chocolate is something red and slightly sparkly. Dean’s nose wrinkles.

 

“Is that-- are we looking at Santa’s blood right now?”

 

“Yes,” Bill says. He looks like he might be sick.

 

Making his way over from where he’s been inspecting the rest of the room, Cas looks at the spilled drink with a frown. He swipes his finger through it and gives it a sniff.

 

“This contains hemlock,” he says gravely. “Santa was poisoned.”

 

“So we’re probably looking for someone he knows. That should narrow things down,” Dean says.

 

“Not necessarily,” Bill says.

 

“Everyone knows Santa,” Sully agrees.

 

“Well, whoever did this has to have been big enough to get him out of here if he was passed out,” Sam says, crouching down to get a closer look. 

 

Bill shakes his head.

 

“They took his sack.”

 

“They…” Dean closes his eyes. “His sack?”

 

This is like the ballwasher all over again.

 

“The sack he carries toys in,” Sully says. “It’s magic.” 

 

“It adjusts itself to suit whoever is carrying it. If they got him in the sack, they wouldn’t need to be strong to drag him out of here,” Bill adds.

 

“And you’re sure they took it?”

 

“It’s usually hanging on the hook by the door,” Bill says, then points toward the back of the house. “We think they took him out this way.”

 

Out the back is a field, a narrow creek running between it and the house. Dean can see a herd of reindeer grazing in the distance, but he only looks at them for a moment before Bill points out the drag marks in the mud and snow. If any footprints were made, the sack erased all trace of them.

 

They follow him down through the small yard to the edge of the creek, where Bill shows them a damp red and white hat on the pebbles. There’s a small smear of blood on the fuzzy white edge.

 

“This is where the trail ends. There’s no drag marks on the other side of the creek, and we walked for miles in each direction. Nothing.”

 

“Was there a ransom note?” Sam asks hopefully.

 

Bill shakes his head, long tail coming up to scratch at his chin.

 

“Then, did he have any enemies that you know of?” Cas asks, and Dean gives him an incredulous look. 

 

“How would Santa have enemies?”

 

“Well, someone poisoned him, Dean. That’s hardly friendly behaviour. Also, some of the elves mustn’t have liked him. They were on strike for a reason.”

 

“Good point,” Sam says. “What was the reason?”

 

“Work conditions sucked,” Bill says. “A few of the elves came up with an idea of how to make production more efficient so they wouldn’t have to give up watching over their kids after they grew up, but Santa didn’t think it was healthy to stick around, and said they were better off making toys for the kids young enough to need them.”

 

“Do you know the elves who had the idea? Are they still around?”

 

“Most of them were back at the town hall.”

 

“We’ll talk to them first.”

 

\----

 

The first Zanna Bill suggests they speak with is, for lack of a better term, a fairy princess. She’s wearing a frouffy pastel dress, and has iridescent wings that are difficult to look at for too long. As she makes her way into the room they’ve been allowed to use, she looks at them with sky-blue doe eyes. Dean takes one look at her as she walks through the door and nudges Cas.

 

“Like looking in a mirror, hey?” he says.

 

“What?”

 

“Sparkly wings, giant baby blues. I almost thought there were two of you.”

 

“My wings were lost years ago,” Cas says flatly. “And they never sparkled. I’ll wait outside.”

 

He turns and leaves, stepping around the startled Zanna, and Dean stares after him feeling like the biggest asshole on the planet.

 

“Real nice, Dean,” Sam says.

 

“Did you know his wings were gone?”

 

“He never actually said they were, but yeah, I thought it was obvious.”

 

“Crap, I should probably go find him. Can you--” Dean gestures toward the Zanna, still waiting near the door, and Sam nods.

 

“Go. I’ll talk to, uh…” he glances at the list of Bill gave him and pulls a face. “Princessa.”

 

Dean pauses.

 

“Princessa?” he repeats under his breath. “Seriously?”

 

Sam shrugs helplessly and beckons her over, and Dean heads out into the cool air, looking around until he finds Cas crouched down to speak with a foot-tall Zanna who looks a little like a garden gnome in a three-piece suit.

 

He stops a half dozen feet away to wait, and overhears a few words.

 

“...seen her since then?”

 

“Only once or twice,” the Zanna replies. “I couldn’t say anything to Bill, you understand right?”

 

“Of course. Where can I find Paloma?” 

 

She points.

 

“Straight down, then left onto Honeysuckle Lane. Their house is the first on the street.”

 

“Thank you, Francine.”

 

Francine smiles, giving a little wave before bounding off down the street, and Cas stands up straight. He looks toward Dean and his expression flickers for a moment before he seems to decide to focus on the case.

 

“I think we should speak with--” he starts, and Dean steps forward, lifting his hands.

 

“Wait, I just. Can I say something first?”

 

Cas’ jaw twitches.

 

“What is it?”

 

“I’m sorry, okay? I wasn’t thinking. I just…”

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“No, it’s not. I was an ass.”

 

“You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”

 

“Shut up, you dick, I’m trying to apologize.”

 

“The insults are helping, you should do more of that.”

 

Wincing, Dean rubs the back of his neck.

 

“Look, you know I’m only kidding when I say stuff like that, right? Like, about your wings, and the thing about your suit, and… You’re supposed to say stuff back. Like, when you called me a lumberjack, that kind of thing. Or--”

 

“You’re an idiot,” Cas says, though there’s a thoughtful tone to his voice that gives Dean pause.

 

“Harsh, but yeah. Okay. That’s a start.”

 

“No, I wasn’t-- I just remembered something from a TV show.”

 

“Oh,” Dean smiles and takes a step closer. “Well, yeah. I mean, that’s basically it. Just, y’know. Teasing, I guess. But not cruel.”

 

“So you want me to tease you?”

 

Dean feels his cheeks burn at the phrasing, but he shrugs.

 

“Yeah, I guess. If you want.”

 

“Alright. But could I ask you something in return?”

 

“Shoot.”

 

“Could you just… from now on, can you just say what you mean?”

 

“I can try,” Dean offers after a moment. “It’s, uh… not always easy, y’know?”

 

Cas squints at him.

 

“Are you saying it’s difficult to keep yourself from insulting me?”

 

“Crap, no. I just mean it’s…” Dean cuts himself off when he sees that Cas is smiling at him, and shakes his head. “Man, not cool. You know I suck at talking about things.”

 

“Why is that?”

 

“How long you got?” Dean jokes, and Cas just looks at him patiently. “I dunno, Cas. Nothing ever comes out right, I guess. It’s easier to make a joke than say something real, because if someone laughs then it’s because they were supposed to.”

 

“Well, I’d never laugh at you for saying something real,” Cas tells him. “So keep that in mind.”

 

The jingling of a bell over the town hall door draws their attention, and Dean looks over to see Princessa making her way outside.

 

“I guess she didn’t know anything,” Dean says. “What did, uh… Francine tell you?”

 

“She said she saw Bill’s wife leaving Santa’s house the day he went missing.”

 

Dean blinks.

 

“Seriously?”

 

“She was concerned that Bill was unaware of Paloma having been there.”

 

Shaking his head, Dean looks down the street to where Francine had pointed.

 

“How is this reality?”

 

“I’m not sure. Perhaps we should have asked Chuck that before he left.”

 

Huffing out a laugh, Dean bumps Cas with his shoulder and starts down the street. Cas falls into step beside him.

 

“You never told me they were gone,” Dean says after a couple of minutes. “I mean, I knew you couldn’t fly, but I thought it was just a grace thing. Like during the apocalypse.”

 

Cas doesn’t reply, just turns his focus to the ground.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“I thought talking about things was “too Dr. Phil” for your liking.”

 

“Sure, talking about my crap is. But this is your crap. I’m all for talking about your crap. I want to help, Cas. Let me.”

 

“There’s nothing you can do.”

 

“Maybe not. Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna try.”

 

Dean tries for a smile, and Cas sends one back.

 

\----

 

Paloma has a single, pearly horn protruding from the center of her forehead, and she answers the door in a bright purple chunky knit sweater that hangs down to her knees.

 

“Thank you,” she says, and yanks him in for a crushing hug without warning. “Thank you.”

 

“Yeah, uh… you’re welcome?” he says, glancing over at Cas in confusion.

 

“I’m positive that Sparkle would have been grateful for all you did.”

 

“You knew him?”

 

“He was my cousin,” Paloma says, wiping at her tear-streaked cheeks. She gives a shaky smile. “Sorry. I get a little overwhelmed sometimes.”

 

“No biggie. You, uh… you mind if we ask you a few questions?”

 

Dean’s not really sure how to shift from accepting this humanicorn’s gratitude to accusing her of kidnapping Santa, but it only takes half an hour in her presence for them to realize she had nothing to do with it.

 

“I went to see Santa every week,” Paloma says, looking up when the front door opens and Bill steps inside. “Hi, hon. We have company.”

 

Bill walks over and pecks her on the cheek, sparing a confused look for Dean and Cas.

 

“Any coffee left?”

 

“Plenty,” she says, and smiles at him as he leaves for the kitchen before turning back to Dean and Cas. “As I was saying, I had a standing appointment with him.”

 

“What for?”

 

“Well, since a tentative agreement was reached for the strike--”

 

“Wait, what? I thought the strike was still happening.”

 

“Technically it is, but just until the details get figured out. I went to Santa just after the agreement was settled to express my concerns. It’s been so long since toys were delivered, and the world has changed so much…. Can you imagine if he tried to enter someone’s home to leave a mysterious package in this day and age? Parents would be beside themselves.”

 

“You’re not wrong.”

 

“So we’ve been compiling a database of human charities for underprivileged children that accept gift donations over the holidays, and working on a system of delivery. That’s why I was there.”

 

“Is there anyone who would be put out by the plan?” Dean asks.

 

“Not that I know of,” Paloma says with a frown, then falters. “Although…”

 

“Although?”

 

“Well, I suppose the Listmaker might not like it.”

 

“The Listmaker?”

 

“Melvin. He’s the head of the Listing Department. They keep track of which children want what.”

 

“I thought Santa did that.”

 

“Santa just checks it,” she explains. “Melvin and his staff returned to work as soon as the agreement was reached, but since we’re not delivering specific gifts… well, it hasn’t been announced yet since we’re still finalizing things, but the listing department will likely be made redundant. I’m not sure how he’d even know about it, though.”

 

“Where can we find him?” 

 

“He lives in the main square. The house with the green door.”

 

“Thank you, Paloma,” Cas says, dipping his head, and she gives them another watery smile.

 

\-----

 

Sam’s waiting for them when they get to the town square, and though he’d been dressed in his regular clothes when they left him at the town hall, he’s now wearing an ill-fitting yellow sweater with a pattern of blue reindeer around the middle. His face looks a little flushed, and his hair is mostly hidden under a floppy dark green beanie.

 

“What’s with the outfit?” Dean asks when they get closer, and Sam looks away.

 

“Long story,” he says.

 

The motion of turning his head makes a few strands of hair swing free, and they’re noticeably dark. They leave a smear of black on his cheek.

 

“You have a fight with a pen?”

 

“What?”

 

“On your--” Dean gestures, and Sam’s eyes go wide as he raises his hands to wipe at his face. When his fingers touch it, his nose crinkles. He wipes his hand on his jeans. 

 

“Is that ink?” Cas asks him, and Sam gets a haunted look in his eyes.

 

“Last Zanna I interviewed got nervous.”

 

Too curious to avoid it, Dean reaches out and yanks the beanie from Sam’s head. All the hair on the left side is damp and almost black, and on closer inspection there’s a faint stain on his skin.

 

“Do we even want to know?”

 

“Not telling you more either way. Where’s the house?”

 

Sam’s eyes dart to something past Dean’s shoulder, and it’s enough to make him turn around. Standing outside the town hall is a Zanna who looks--for lack of a better description--like Ursula the sea witch. Dean grins as Sam groans.

 

“Holy crap, you got inked by a squid-person,” Dean laughs, looking back at his brother. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened.”

 

“Shut up,” Sam says.

 

“I can’t believe we missed it,” Dean goes on, shaking his head. He pats Sam twice on the shoulder and heads across the square toward the house with the green door. A huge oak tree stands out the front, string lights curling around the trunk and twinkling.

 

The door looks smaller the closer they get to it, and it has a heavy brass knocker in the shape of an acorn. Dean has a sinking feeling that hits rock bottom when an angry-looking two-foot tall squirrel answers the door.

 

“What do you want?” he asks, nose twitching.

 

Dean backs up a step to look down at him.

 

“Uh,” he says.

 

“Melvin Henderson?” Cas asks, as though talking to an overgrown squirrel is a normal thing to do, and Melvin makes a high chirping sound that Dean guesses means yes. “We’d like to speak to you about Santa.”

 

Dean’s pretty sure that if he was in therapy, this case would be the one he’d talk about the most.

 

“What about him?”

 

“You think we could come in first?” Dean asks, making a show of rubbing his hands together. “Chilly out here.”

 

Melvin’s eyes narrow.

 

“Fine.”

 

They all have to duck to get inside, and then stoop low to keep their heads from bumping into the ceiling.

 

As soon as the door is closed, Melvin darts into the living room and onto a squishy looking armchair, perching on it before they even make it through the entry. He’s twitchy as hell, his eyes darting between each of them constantly, but Dean can’t tell if it’s because he’s guilty or because he’s a squirrel.

 

He’s a goddamn squirrel, Dean thinks, and plasters on a pleasant smile as they try to sit on furniture that would be slightly too small for a six year old.

 

“We understand that you’re a listmaker,” Cas starts, and the end of Melvin’s tail flicks in irritation.

 

“The Listmaker,” he says.

 

“My mistake,” Cas says, but he glances over at Dean with a look that tells him it wasn’t a mistake at all. Melvin is touchy about his position and his title. Dean gives a tiny nod of understanding, and Cas turns back to Melvin. “Are you aware of Santa’s plan to do away with personalized gifts?”

 

Melvin’s tail flicks again.

 

“I’ve heard rumors,” he says.

 

“Could I ask where you were three nights ago?” Sam asks him.

 

“I was here,” Melvin says, and goes on to explain--in vivid detail--every moment of his evening.

 

While Melvin talks, Dean takes a moment to scan the room. There’s seven different bookshelves, each one straining under the weight of countless tchotchkes, and on the low table beside the chair Melvin sits on is a giant bowl of nuts. From his seat, Dean can see into the kitchen, separated from the living room only by a low counter, and though there are shelves all along the wall, none seem to hold anything but nuts and seeds, a pestle and mortar, and a tall bottle of Amaretto. Dean nudges Cas when he sees it, tilting his chin toward the kitchen.

 

Cas frowns, confused, so Dean widens his eyes, nodding toward the bottle again. Cas’ frown only grows deeper.

 

“...and then I went to bed,” Melvin finishes, and Sam blinks at him.

 

“Uhuh,” he says. “Thanks for the detail.”

 

Slipping his hand into his pocket, Dean pulls out his cell and lifts his brow at the blank screen.

 

“Sorry, I’ve gotta take this,” he lies, getting to his feet and gesturing toward the kitchen. “Can I just--”

 

“Sure.”

 

Melvin hardly spares him a glance as he walks past, and Dean answers the lack of a call with a series of yep’s and uhuh’s as he takes a closer look at the bottle in the kitchen. Floating at the bottom, he sees the crushed up remnants of a flower and some leaves. Gotcha, he thinks, turning to look back at the others. Cas is the first to meet his eye, and Dean points at the bottle, mouthing hemlock. 

 

He’s still deciding whether it’s going to be a better idea to keep questioning him, or to let him know the jig is up, when he sees the back of Melvin’s chair bulge slightly outward. As he watches, it happens again.

 

Dean doesn’t think twice about lunging across the room and grabbing Melvin around the middle. Sam jumps to his feet, startled beyond measure, and Melvin lets out a loud, shrill screech. His tiny sharp claws scratch at Dean’s hands as he thrashes out of his grip and scurries up his arm to bite him right on the ear.

 

“Fu-- get off!” Dean grunts, trying to shake him loose.

 

“Dean, what the hell?!”

 

Sam and Cas are both standing at a loss, trying to figure out what Dean saw that made him act, but Dean’s too preoccupied with the feral Zanna who’s trying to claw his eyes out to give them a clue.

 

“He’s-- dammit-- Santa’s in the-- ugh!” Dean splutters around a mouthful of Melvin’s tail, spitting out hairs that stick to his tongue and trying really hard not to wonder how often the guy washes it. Finally, his hands manage to land on Melvin, and he pulls him away to yell. “The chair!”

 

Hurrying forward, Sam pulls the chair’s cushion away, tossing it onto the floor, and it hits the carpet with a thud. A a very low, muffled grunt comes from inside it. 

 

“Oh, crap,” Sam says, and he kneels to yank the zip of the cover open, finding a lumpy red sack wedged inside.

 

Gingerly, Sam unties the cord of the sack, and jerks backward, landing on his ass when a foot kicks it’s way out. There’s a lot of grunting as Santa struggles to stand, and then the sack is flung free.

 

Santa stands there, red-faced and wheezing in what appear to be his pajamas, his white hair matted to his forehead. He looks at the scene around him, dazed, and they all stare back--except for Melvin, who is still trying to slip from Dean’s grip.

 

“Hi,” Sam says, and Santa takes a deep breath before his eyes roll back in his head, and he keels right over into the bowl of nuts.

 

Cas, meanwhile, steps calmly over to Dean and bops Melvin on the nose, catching the now-unconscious Zanna before he drops to the floor. Dean blinks at him, breathing heavily and stretching out his scratched-up hands.

 

“You couldn’t have done that five minutes ago?”

 

“I assumed you’d be able to handle a squirrel on your own.”

 

There’s nothing Dean can say to that, and Cas smirks, brushing his fingers over Dean’s scratched skin until it heals. The feeling of the grace working through him makes his stomach flip.

 

“You’re an idiot,” Dean tells him.

 

“You, too,” Cas says.

 

\------

 

A procession of Zanna escort them back to their cars a few short hours later, Santa in their midst, and Dean nudges Sam in the ribs when he notices the half-octopus among them.

 

“Hey Sammy, your friend’s here,” he says.

 

Sam’s jaw twitches, but he doesn’t take the bait.

 

“What will you do with Melvin?” Cas asks, and Santa frowns. 

 

“He’s to be given a choice,” Santa says. “He may stay here peacefully, and accept the changing times, or he must leave. Paloma tells me he needs time to think on it.”

 

Satisfied, Cas nods and keeps walking, his hand bumping against Dean’s as they go. Dean bumps right back, and wonders how much longer they’re going to keep this up. He feels like something’s gotta give soon, especially after their conversation earlier.

 

“I really can’t thank you all enough,” Santa says when they reach the cars, interrupting Dean’s thoughts.

 

Sam claps Sully on the shoulder.

 

“Hey, thank this guy for letting us know you needed help.”

 

“I’ll find a way to thank Sully, too,” Santa says warmly, and Sully’s face turns so red at the attention that he clashes with his t-shirt.

 

“Perhaps you could consider the elves proposal to allow them to visit their human friends after they’ve grown,” Cas suggests. “After all, it’s only because Sully did so that you’re free right now.”

 

Santa looks taken aback by the idea, but after a moment he nods.

 

“I’ll consider it,” he says.


End file.
